


Mirror, Mirror, in Us All

by clair_de_neptune



Category: Snow White and the Huntsman (2012)
Genre: Alternate plot, F/F, POV Second Person, Rating May Change, how SWatH should have gone: with all the gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_neptune/pseuds/clair_de_neptune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What someone sees in the Mirror is just a reflection of themselves. That's what most people think, at least. But no, when you look into the Mirror, you see something deeper: the reflection of the darkest side of your heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

_I’ll take your throne_

_And when I sit in the vacant space_

_I will be filling the hole in which_

_You have stolen from me_

* * *

_I’ll take your throne_

_And when I sit in the vacant space_

_I will be deepening the hole in which_

_You have left for me_

* * *

_I’ll take your throne_

_And when I sit in the vacant space_

_I will be thinking of it,_

_Thinking of your beating heart_

* * *

_I’ll take your throne_

_And when I sit in the vacant space_

_I will be thinking of it,_

_Thinking of your withered heart…_

* * *

_What brings us together is what pulls us apart_

_Please, dear,_

_Bring me your heart…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

You are tired of this talk of love.

For hours the huntsman and William have argued wordlessly over whose kiss broke the spell. The space between them serves as a battleground as their spear-like glares slice the air, launching fatal blows towards them both. And you stand in the middle, narrowly dodging the javelins that they exchange, begging both of them to stop. This is not what it’s supposed to be about.

More than anything, this is not how _you_ want to feel. You aren’t a maiden to be bickered over, and this is exactly how they are treating you, even through war preparations. There is a constant sense of one trying to outdo the other, whether it is in the training arena or the strategy room—and you are tired.

So, so tired.

It frightens you. You catch yourself beginning to base your thoughts on how valuable you are to Eric and William; sometimes these thoughts are small and fleeting, and you barely notice them—other times you halt everything else and snag them, glare at them disgustedly and in shock, and cast them away before you slowly turn into something much more senseless.

No, this is not what it’s supposed to be about. This is never what it was _intended_ to be about. Love was never supposed to enter this situation. It was irrelevant. Useless.

A bit like how you’re beginning to feel, in fact.

Ever since you awoke, the Duke’s men, servants, soldiers—they’ve been treating you like a fragile flower that will wither and die if the slightest scratch comes upon your head. Suddenly, they want to preserve you…as if it wasn’t important before.

And even if Ravenna is slain, you know these problems will not disappear with her.

William and Eric will still continue to fight over who wins your hand, and when you will finally grow weary and acquiesce to the lesser of two evils, so to speak, you will become nothing more than a figurehead of kindness and benevolence in your kingdom. All of that independence—it will vanish.

After the battle, you will return to being treated daintily and with overprotective care, while your husband, whoever _that_ shall be, makes the true decisions for the land.

It is sickening as much as it is frightening.

Perhaps that’s where the nauseating roll in your gut has stemmed from—the underlying knowledge that the control you once had over your life is slowly slipping into the hands of others, bit by bit, like sand in an hourglass.

It’s only a matter of time before all the grains fall into the other side, and all you can do is helplessly watch.

* * *

Rest is not granted to you at any hour of the day.

During the daylight hours, you are constantly surrounded by the silent clamor of tension between Eric and William. It hangs in the air like the humidity of the summer and the bleak grey clouds of the winter, taking many different forms but always conveying the same thing.

When you are given the smallest sliver of privacy in your chambers, the thoughts of future conflict and the unplaced burden of a queen dangle precariously near your precious head that must remain unscathed. And when these thoughts finally overcome your internal arguments, you inhale a deep, empty breath and extinguish the solitary candle next to your bed.

The darkness does not give you the solace you so desperately wish it would.

You stare into it, closing and opening your eyes without seeing a difference, and it is the personification of how you feel.

Blind. Overwhelmed.

And it is in the darkness—the color of death—that fear seems to be brought to life; in the darkness, things no longer with a beating heart resurface around you.

_Lips red as blood_

_Hair black as night_

It comes as a haunting whisper, a memory of your mother and Ravenna cruelly twisted into one. You wonder, then, how a person who is viewed as the quintessence of purity can be described with such dark, violent things, with black and bloodshed—the colors of corruption.

Yes, the colors of corruption sit upon your precious head and stain your lips, as if your thoughts are as dark as night, as if you have sipped upon goblets of blood all your life.

And yet, they call it beauty.

You resist the urge to thrash about wildly in your bed out of frustration, and instead settle for turning restlessly on one side.

                _But I feel you and I are bound._

_I feel it there,_

_in your heart._

Pale hands fly up to clutch your chest as these silent words circle around you, threatening to steal your heart, and you barricade it with as much willpower as you can. This is the source of your greatest night terrors—Ravenna’s voice, once so gentle and soft to you as a child, reminding you of what she wants, reminding you of the contract you never agreed to.

                _I feel it there,_

_in your heart_

This same gentle tone is how she speaks in all of your nightmares. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing, whether it’s simply speaking to you or threatening to carve the thrumming organ out of your chest—she murmurs to you quietly, calmly, as if you were eight years old again.

The anger that you expect to boil in your veins at the mere thought of this does not come. The hate that you expect to throb brazenly against your neck never arrives. Instead, all that these thoughts bring is trembling, twisting sorrow. While everyone else rejoices in the notion of you valiantly slaying Ravenna, it makes you want to _writhe_.

You were never meant to kill anyone, were you?

Visualizing Ravenna’s eyes dimming with death doesn’t settle right in your heart. Perhaps it is because it is your heart she wants, and you must preserve it for her.

Your heartbeat pounds against your flesh with uncertainty, and an exhale hisses past your nostrils. For now, you must sleep.

Even though you know dreams will not bring your solace, either.

* * *

It is cold.

That’s the first thing you pick up as your eyes flutter open. It is so cold that you can see your breath fog in front of you; it must be the middle of winter. December.

The scene itself is unfamiliar, but you know exactly where you are, and you know exactly who stands a few feet ahead of you.

Garbed in a heavy fur cloak, your mother faces away from you as she walks in the castle gardens, footsteps crunching in the snow. The soft, white powder coats the tops of bare branches, even up to the trees that tower high above your head. Their limbs that spindle outwards against the grey sky remind you of veins.

This is the tale she put you to sleep with every night: the story of how she longed for a child, lips red as blood and hair black as a raven’s wings, all with the strength of a rose blooming defiantly in the suffocating, bitter winter. You are living it now, as you breathe in the icy air and shiver against the chill. A overwhelming longing to run into her warm embrace washes over you, but your legs refuse to maintain any speed other than an achingly slow walk.

Mother’s kind voice, sweet as the summer wind, splices the air and drives the cold away. An unusually warm breeze tickles your skin.

                _And there, dear child, I found among the freshly fallen snow a single red rose. The rest of the world seemed so devoid of life, but there it stood, soft and compassionate, bringing hope to all who saw it._

The crunching of footsteps slows and stops as you watch her halt in front of the sole symbol of life in the deepest of all winter.

                _I reached for it,_

She bends down, then, an arm extended to wrap her fingers along the stem—

                _but pricked my finger on its thorns, and there three drops of blood fell,_

—you watch them fall, and they stain the snow—

                _and the red seemed so alive against the white that I wished for a child with the perseverance of that rose. When my child came, I named her Snow White…_

—she turns around, and your blood crystallizes into crimson ice against your veins—

                _“So that all who stand against her will become alive.”_

—and it is _her_ , and _she_ has been walking all along, or has your mind switched them? And then, as you try to backpedal away from an unnatural green stare, you realize the breeze feels more like the warmth of a freshly deceased corpse, and the soft, gentle voice has been mangled with your mother’s, and it terrifies you how _you couldn’t even tell the difference—_

Ravenna advances towards you calmly, like an un-heavenly angel; her long golden hair cascades down over her shoulders like it was before she married your father; she wears no adornments other than her emerald eyes, and they _bore_ into you, searching desperately for your heart—

—and something else, but you can’t tell what it is.

Her perfect pink lips move as you try to run, but there is an invisible tether that prevents you from going any farther, so you are forced to hear the haunting words, and they reverberate in the warm air reeking of death,

                _“I feel that you and I are bound._

_I feel it there,_

_in your heart…”_

She stops walking, and the undetectable rope holding you two together tightens as you are jerked forward. You trip and stumble right into her arms, and she catches you, grabbing your chin as she forces you to look at her.

Ravenna’s gaze pierces through you. Shuddering involuntarily, you find that you cannot wrench yourself free from her grasp, even though she is holding you rather loosely. You are captivated, so unwillingly captivated, and her perfect pink lips curl into a smile as cold as winter.

The whisper that ghosts the air is delicate and tinkles like silver bells.

                _“…Don’t you feel it too, my dear, dear, Snow White?”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

It is in the dark where fear becomes the most alive. You can feel it there, through the hair plastered to your cold, sweaty skin. You can feel it there, as your lungs struggle to gasp for their next breath. You can feel it there, even as silent beads of salt sting against the corners of your eyes.

You can feel it there, throbbing in the deepest part of your chest.

You can feel it there, in your heart.

* * *

The first time you ever _truly_ wanted to run away was as a child, after your mother died.

There was no particular situation in which you were ensnared that made you fearful—and if there was, you do not remember it. The only thing you can recall is that you were _frightened._ A shaky gasp forced itself against your lungs, and you tried to cry _Mother!,_ but God, oh God that singular word stuck in the back of your throat when you realized she wouldn’t come to save you. So instead, with wide, terrified eyes you choked on that word as dread constricted around your neck like a snake.

The first time you ever _truly_ wanted to run away was when Death drew back his cowl, and now that frighteningly familiar fear creeps around the foot of your bed. Yes, Death has revealed himself once more, but now he does not bestow you with the grief of losing another.

No, he is about to offer you the grief of losing your own life—or perhaps, if he is gracious enough—only your mind.

You have nowhere to go. On the one hand, if Ravenna dies, your life—the _control_ of your own life—that is placed in the palms of another man. You will be married and die as the “of” portion of the world. “Daughter _of_.” “Wife _of._ ” You do not want to be _of_ someone. You want to _be_ someone.

On the other hand, if, by some chance, Eric and William are taken by Death, you will be left with only Ravenna. Who will have your heart, and you will ultimately die. You are not sure which scenario is worse. Perhaps they are both equally torturous.

It is this feeling of being trapped like an animal of prey in a snare that makes you want to run, just as you did when you were a child. Distance makes everything seem so small. If Ravenna did not persist so often in your dreams, perhaps she would seem nonexistent as well.

If you could run.

* * *

The pastel colors of dawn are seeping past the horizon like ink bleeding through paper when you awaken. You rub your face with your hands and watch the sun slowly begin her ascent into the sky. It has always been a morning ritual of yours, to see a new day rising; it brings you a sliver of still peace you do not often experience anymore.

Especially after a night like this past one. You can feel the fatigue clawing at the lids of your eyes and pulling at the sides of your face. It is exhausting, but you have adjusted to being drained—more or less.

But for now, you are seeing the sun rise, the only thing that can make the weariness seem imaginary. You watch there, out of the small, narrow glass window of your chambers. The rays of sunlight slice through the trees like brilliant swords, but also bring a warmth much needed for the cold, wintery land, frozen to the core with ice. Powdery snow tumbles off of thin evergreen branches as morning birds hop from one place to another, calling to their counterparts with simple songs. A white hare’s ears peek out from under a burrow.

Maybe you could run away, you think. Look at the world, running as normal and without a care. Those birds, those hares, those trees—they don’t know about Ravenna. If you could run away, somewhere far, far away…maybe you could convince yourself that you don’t know Ravenna, either.

A soft knock on your door startles you from your thoughts. It is only after you say “come in” that you realize you had instinctively clutched your chest to protect your heart.

A younger girl with a small tray opens the door and takes a meek step inside your room. “Your breakfast, Queen Snow—”

“Thank you, Sarah,” you say and give her a kind look, “but please, call me Snow.”

“Yes, of course Que…Snow.” Her cheeks flush faintly. She walks over quietly, like a ghost, and places the tray on your bed. You smile graciously to her.

You want to wait until she leaves before you eat, but there is a hesitance about her—as if there is something she wishes to ask—a lingering feeling. Narrowing your green eyes in a reflective manner, you murmur, “Is there anything else, Sarah?”

“I—no,” she stammers, and that is all. Her gaze falls to the floor.

“If there is something causing you ill, I would like to know, if you are willing to tell me,” you encourage, and her pale, ice-blue eyes flick up to meet yours nervously.

She takes a short breath. “I…” she swallows, and averts her gaze again, “I was curious…is all…I mean, I—I do not think it is all appropriate if I were to ask you this question, but I…”

Your eyes soften in compassion as you patiently wait.

“I was wondering if you know…if you know whose kiss it was that awoke you.”

It is then, at the verbalization of that very question that has been circulating in your mind day and night that your muscles tense and your blood freezes. You think that Sarah saw a flash of discomfort flicker across your eyes because all too quickly she is in the door frame, leaving the room, murmuring shaking apologies, hand on the doorknob.

The door closes without a sound.

You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and feel the coldness of the air seep through the sides of your chest. If you really focus, if you really try with all your might, maybe the cold can make everything numb.

Is that how powerful leaders push through duties? By being numb? Perhaps if you were numb, you could not feel the disappointment of your comrades as you fled.

You open your eyes and scowl at the tray, now holding lukewarm food, that rests indifferently on your bed. What kind of person are you becoming? An emotionless coward whose only wish is to scamper away like a foolish child?

No, you manage to tell yourself, you are not that coward. A woman destined to be a Queen shall _not_ be a coward.

But the little worm of doubt still squirms in your mind, because right now you are not feeling at all very much like a Queen. It has been hard for you to envision. All you can see is this conflict—Ravenna hunting you down for your heart, and the Duke preparing his men—just dragging on for eternity.

When will be the day that you must take on Ravenna face-to-face?

Not today, you decide. You swallow down your breakfast, now cold, don a warm cloak, and straighten your back before you leave.

* * *

You ignore the worried glances of the servants as you make your way towards the training arena. Right now, you need a distraction, and practicing with your blade is all you want to do. Eric and William—even the Duke—protested when you first tried to wield a sword. _“We must keep you safe!”_ they argued, _“You’ll hurt yourself; you’re only a woman!”_

They fell silent when you asked them, _“And when you fail to keep me safe? What then? Will I be helpless, captured defenseless by the enemy? What kind of commander orders but does not battle? What kind of Queen does not fight alongside her men?”_

You look back on that conversation and cringe, for now you are a Queen who wishes not to fight with her men, but to run away. Your hypocrisy makes your stomach twist. Perhaps Eric and William were right, after all.

You enter the training arena and wrap your fingers around your sword on the rack.

_What kind of commander orders but does not battle?_

You take the sword and are soothed by its familiar weight, by how the grip rubs against your palm. Gaining a battle stance, you head towards one of the dummies set up on one side of the empty arena.

_What kind of Queen does not fight alongside her men?_

The sword whistles a tune as it slices through the air, and you can feel the muscles in your sword arm twitch and tense as you turn on your heel, strike again, whirl around, strike down, side-step, strike—

_What kind of commander orders but does not battle?_

_A cowardly one._

_—_ Your jaw tightens, your eyebrows pinch, and the whistling of the sword grows louder.

_What kind of Queen does not fight alongside her men?_

_A cowardly one._

Raising your sword high in the air, you are about to bring down a final strike when the dummy suddenly isn’t a dummy anymore—it’s Ravenna, pale skin glowing in the sunlight and emerald eyes burning through you, scrutinizing, desperately searching, sifting through your chest, rattling your ribcage as it gropes around blindly for your heart.

Stumbling backwards in shock, your blade drops to the ground as you clutch your chest protectively. Ravenna does not move; the only thing separating her from a statue is the sharp flash of victory that races across her green irises.

“You lost focus, Snow.”

You blink, and Ravenna is gone, but as you turn around, you are met with yet another person you wish to run from. Eric stands a few feet away, axe slung over his broad shoulder. “Is there anything wrong?” he asks gently.

With a sigh, you pick up your sword and shake your head. Eric’s lips tighten in response—he knows, you think, he knows that something is most definitely wrong—but you are not willing to tell him, nor William, nor the Duke, nor the servants, nor anyone.

In fact, there really isn’t anyone you can tell but yourself, and telling yourself what is wrong doesn’t get you very far—because _you_ already know, but you don’t know what to do.

You imagined Ravenna, the source of your sleepless nights, the essence of your conflicts, the very woman who killed your father, and now wishes to kill _you_ —and _you_ —after all she has stolen—cannot kill her.

“Well, if you ever need someone…” the huntsman trails off as he rubs his palm against the handle of his axe. He was never quite good with being comforting.

“Thank you.” It is terse and a bit too formal. You turn around and begin swinging distractedly at the dummy again, and the sound of footsteps dragging slightly in the grass makes you feel incredibly guilty.

Eric’s grunts echo off of the walls surrounding the arena as he hacks away at the air, and you resume trying to train, shrugging off the discomfort. Each time you prepare for the final blow, however, the image of Ravenna searching, searching, searching, eyes drilling into your chest, seeking, seeking, seeking—flickers in front of your eyes, and you drop your sword, unable to go through.

_What kind of Queen does not slay her enemy?_

_A cowardly one._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

After attempting to slice your thoughts apart with your sword for the rest of the morning, and after trying to kill imaginary Ravenna, but failing each time, you decide you need a break. The muscles in your legs, arms, and shoulders throb in protest of the grueling physical exertion you put them under, and your dark hair, shining with a thin layer of sweat, even in this cold, is plastered against your pale forehead. Eric glances at you a few times as you exit the arena, eyes soft and pleading. Your eyes meet only once with his.

You are not sure if he saw the apology you were trying to hide.

You are sorry for many things. You are sorry for hurting his feelings—you still want to be his friend, after all—you are sorry for the conflict that tears apart him and William.

Slowly, as this regret and guilt forms balls and chains around your ankles, you trudge through the narrow corridors towards the mess hall, only managing short greetings to people who walk by. Quiet murmurs follow after you pass them, and you know they are whispering about you, talking about the kisses, talking about your mood, talking about how to help you, how to make you feel better, how to keep you safe.

You ignore them all.

A large room opens up before you, filled with tables lined up side-by-side. Sitting at those tables are soldiers with parts of their armor on, lances and swords laying under the benches. Their tired, heavy shoulders pull down their backs as they hunch over their food, but as soon as one of them sees you, he whispers to his friend, who whispers to his friend—and they all straighten their posture. Most of them turn their heads to consider you thoughtfully.

Hundreds of gazes look upon you, some with gratitude, some with exhaustion—but thankfulness and hope all the same. It warms your heart, and you smile at their grime-covered faces. Their stubbly cheeks round out as they give faint smiles in reply, and if they do not smile, they do so with their eyes.

The guilt that wraps around your feet now latches on like a weight in your heart. How could you ever abandon these men, who have so much of themselves invested in you?

You could, if you were numb. But God has cursed you with a compassionate soul, and your throat tightens at the thought of these soldiers' faces falling with despair, without guidance, without someone to look to, at your disappearance.

You could never run away. Not for a second.

Spotting a table towards the corner of the hall, you get your food and sit at it, alone. Unfortunately, someone else spots you as well, and he thinks he is helping you by keeping you company.

William comes up to you and sits down on the bench directly opposite, his dark eyes both excited and calm—no different than he was as a child. You nod in recognition to him, but cast your gaze down at your meal. Hopefully, you think, he will get the message, that you wish not to be bothered.

William never was good at reading other people, anyhow. He ducks his head down to try to catch your eyes. "I heard training this morning didn't go very swell."

You can't help but snort at that. "Eric told you, did he?"

There is no need to look at William—you can feel his whole demeanor prickle at the mere mention of Eric—but he responds nonchalantly, almost too much so. "Ye. He said you kept dropping your sword, along those lines or another."

Suddenly—you don't know what comes over you then—you decide to launch the conversation straight into what's really going on. "So why were you talking to Eric?" Now you look up, just in time to see the shock hit William's face.

"Why wouldn't I be talking to Eric?" he questions, but you know he's avoiding the real situation. You stab at your food with your fork and sigh.

"You know why you wouldn't be talking to Eric. Unless," you gesture with your hand casually, "you had something to make clear to him."

William's voice drops low, almost to a whisper. "What are you getting at, Snow?" he hisses, and it startles you. William has been nothing but gentle to you, but then again, this is the kind of reaction you wanted, right?

"I'm tired, William," you exhale deeply. "I'm tired of being fought over. I'm tired of being in the middle of your battleground. I'm tired of seeing you two argue behind my back. Please," you murmur, "just let it go."

"Why don't you just tell us, then?" His dark eyebrows drop low over his eyes; he is frustrated. "Why don't you just tell us who woke you?" When he notices your equally frustrated expression, he thinks this is because of the inability to choose, and he places his hand on yours. "Then this will all be over," he adds encouragingly, "I promise."

"Your make promises without thinking them through," you snap, and draw your hand away. "You— _both_ of you, don't listen. I've already told you! I don't _know._ Besides," your voice raises as you continue, "all of us know it won't be over. You'll both hate each other afterwards. I don't even have to truly know who woke me. I could just make it up, and pit you against each other for the rest of my bloody life, if I wanted to!"

"Snow," William pleads as he shoots sharp glances at others turning to see the commotion, "please, calm down—"

" _No,_ " your voice shakes a bit, but it doesn't matter, because this is the first time you've ever spoken how you feel, and you aren't going to let it go to waste. "Must you claim me over one kiss? Must I choose, without even knowing how I felt, without even being able to _feel_ during my curse?" You abruptly stand, and your fork clatters loudly against your plate. "You want to know who I choose?"

His silence indicates he would most certainly like to know, but his lips, acting rather cowardly, betray him. They do not move.

"I choose _neither_ of you—"

"But Snow—"

"—and I don't give—" you place your palms on the table and lean in close, baring your teeth, "—a bloody _fuck_ who woke me." Loose strands of your black hair slip out from behind your ears and in front of your face, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you think you must look rather animal-like. Good. You have never really shown anger before, and the kind, gentle girl that they all thought they knew is showing another side of herself that was hidden for a very long time—and that was hidden to yourself for a very long time.

William doesn't respond for a moment, flabbergasted by the brutish, crude language coming from your innocent lips. He blinks, then decides to try to console you. "Snow, listen—"

"What more do you want?" you cut him off sharply. By this point, the guilt that weighed you down before is burning away to naught but ash. It fuels your rage. This isn't your fault, you think, this was _never_ your fault.

He falls silent after that, his dark gaze dropping to the tabletop. Your eyes sweep the mess hall only to find hundreds of wide eyes looking back at you.

You ignore them all. You are not sorry.

* * *

You almost forgot that rest is not granted to you at any hour of the day. Luckily, the dream that you have tonight reminds you of this.

You are in a room, a large one—an indoor training room. It is nighttime, and it is cold—December, you think. The iciness of the room pierces at your skin effortlessly. Puffs of air condensate in front of you as you exhale. The small candles along the walls provide little light and little heat. You shiver.

There is an odd weight at your hip, and as you feel at it you realize it is a sword. Unsheathing it, the scraping sound of it amplifies in the room. It reflects the faint light of the candles, and glows a bit like silver, driving away the shadows around it.

An unusually warm breeze whips your hair on your right side, and you whirl around to face its source, but you cannot see that far away in the corner, cloaked by darkness. You squint as you defensively walk forward—slowly—warily.

Soft, feather-light footsteps pad against the cold stone floor, and you raise your sword higher. From the shadows emerges first a chuckle that sound like William's—no, Eric's—no, William's—

You can't tell. It sounds like either a combination of both or an alteration of each, and as the figure's silhouette becomes more prominent, your blood freezes again.

That is not William, and that is not Eric.

Ravenna's gaze reaches you first, ever-seeking, ever-searching, and then her form emerges completely from the darkness. The crown is absent from her head, and all she wears is a simple, black dress in which she can move with ease. It is a stark contradiction, you think, to wear a garb the color of Death but have hair the color of Light.

You want to charge her and flee from her, but your legs are not cooperating; they stay stone still, no matter how much you urge them to move. Ravenna approaches you slowly, and stops exactly one sword-length away. Lungs expanding shallowly, your breath quickens as you begin to panic.

She's after your heart. She's after your heart, even though you wield a sword, you cannot defend yourself; you _know_ you cannot kill her. Perhaps Eric and William were right after all. Perhaps you are merely a woman. Perhaps you need to be saved.

_And when you fail to keep me safe? What then?_

You have your answer now. Eric with his axe and William with his bow are not here—it is only you, you and Ravenna, the day you must rise against each other, face-to-face.

It doesn't feel like you are rising against her, though. You feel like a small child whose hands have not grown into her weapon, and Ravenna is merely playing with you, a toy of entertainment before she takes your heart.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she says, like a training instructor. Her chin is high and her neck is exposed, and the dry amusement in her eyes makes you want to hiss. "Come, practice."

It is a sick, twisted thing she is doing—exposing her throat for you to merely _practice_ on—because she knows, she _knows_ you will not hit the mark, no matter how many times you try, no matter how much willpower you drive your sword with. Your tongue twitches against the roof of your mouth, eager to twist with your frustration, to craft your anger and hatred, to form words to make her tremble, to convince her that thieving you of your heart would surely kill her as much as it would kill you, but all your uncooperative body does is twitch your lower lip. The urge to scream at Ravenna becomes overwhelming, and, unable to do so, your fingers tighten around the grip of your blade.

Ravenna only tilts her golden-haired head, curious as to why you are not killing her already.

"Come," she whispers, _beckoning_ , as if she is _tempting_ you, "practice."

With a cry, you lift your sword and attempt a slice against her shoulder—but she only steps out of the way. "Again," she commands, emerald eyes hard and gleaming, and you do—again. And again. And again. And again.

Each time she steps out of the way, you grow angry—angry she is evading you so easily, angry at yourself for not being able to destroy your enemy, angry that she is only _playing_ with you. The annoyance starts small, but quickly builds into rage, and like an avalanche it does not stop once it has started. You take a deep breath. Your throat is terribly dry. Your eyes are watering from the freezing air. The armor on your body feels too heavy; the sword in your hand is like a block of lead. Gathering all of your strength, you raise your sword and lurch forward, aiming for her heart.

Ravenna steps backwards and grabs onto the sharpened blade with both hands, catching it, but ultimately cutting her hands down to the bone. Your eyes go wide and you stagger forward, deeply disturbed at the mere thought of the amount of blood that _should_ be pouring from slice wounds on her palms and fingers—but no blood comes. It only disturbs you further. Taking advantage of the momentum, Ravenna effortlessly flings you down to the ground. The sword clatters uselessly to the floor, out of reach.

Your head slams against the stone, and the corners of your vision blacken. You can still see Ravenna, however, and she is approaching you calmly, with a deliberate slowness. Instinctively, you try to crawl away and clutch your heart, but suddenly she is atop of you, trapping you between her legs. You writhe from under her weight. You are trapped. You are an animal in a snare.

You close your eyes. You are going to die.

When the pain of your heart being carved from your chest does not come, you open your eyes in confusion. Ravenna is looking down at you, eyes the color of envy tinged with disappointment and indifference. Blinking once, you croak, "Why aren't you killing me?"

"I might ask the same of you," she replies, and then huffs. An eyebrow arches. "But now I know why you haven't done that yet."

"Stop!" you cry, "I am not a coward—"

"Surely, you are." She reaches to her hip and produces a small dagger. Her slender fingers pry open your hand, which is balled into a fist, and forces the grip into your palm. She closes your fingers over the handle and turns back to you, eyes flickering like the weak candles that line the room. "Again," she whispers.

You are as furious as you are outright horrified. She is both taunting you and begging you to murder her, only you are not sure which is her true intention. Staring at the dagger and her fingers wrapped around yours, you consider this—until you realize she is guiding the knife in your hand to her heart.

"No," you gasp, "no, wait—"

She pauses, and her fingers twitch around your wrist (her grip is abnormally warm—lukewarm, almost—not quite alive, and not quite dead). "What kind of Queen does not slay her enemy?" she asks, leaning in close. Her breath seeps through your skin.

"A cowardly one," you answer, and screw your eyes shut. You can feel her guide your hand the rest of the way, but when you finally gather the courage to open your eyes, the dagger is hilt-deep in her chest, and no blood flows from the wound. Her emerald eyes, which once flickered weakly like candle flames, are now empty and cold. Lifeless.

It is only after you awaken, struggling for air, writhing in the sheets, do you realize that both you and Ravenna are queens. Ravenna, hollow, emotionless Ravenna, did not slay her enemy.

The pillow on your bed becomes damp with your tears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader discretion advised for this chapter. Some depictions of violence. If you are particularly sensitive to mentions of blood and gore (though I don't go into too much detail), you might want to pass on this one. Happy reading. :)

**Chapter 4**

After hours of your body trembling, you manage to take deep breaths, to try to calm yourself down. It is in the dark where the fear becomes the most alive, it is in slumber in which it hunts you, and it is when you lay awake that it strikes, piercing your veins like sharpened lances, tipped with poison that decays you from the inside out.

And it is through your blood that this toxin flows, and it is your heart that circulates it through your quaking form.

* * *

Usually, the bustle of servants and the light of dawn awaken you in the morning. Today, the shouts of men charge through the stone corridors like howling wind, and at first, you think you are having another nightmare.

Rest is not granted to you at any hour of the day, not even in the peaceful daybreak that you thought you once had. No longer. Eric bursts into your room as you are scrambling to put on your armor, ignoring the cold that pierces through the soles of your feet—though you cannot ignore Ravenna’s eyes—dark, fiery green irises—watching you from somewhere, anywhere, _everywhere._

Her soft voice, deadly and gentle, echoes around you, _calling_ for you, for your attention. _Snow._

_Snow._

_Snow._

“Snow.”

The hairs on your neck bristle at the sound of your name, and, whipping around, hair catching at the sides of your cheeks, you point your sword at the source—who lifts his hands and backs up a step. You blink. It is only Eric. You give him an apologetic look, but his face is exhausted. “Wild beasts we’ve never seen before,” he explains briefly. “They’re massive.” He turns on his heel and beckons you to follow behind. You mind the large blade of his axe that hangs over his shoulder.

“From the Dark Forest?” you ask. Would creatures from the Dark Forest really venture out to hunt them so? Had Ravenna finally found a way to harness them with her magic? You shudder. The _things_ —so monstrous they were hardly considered _monsters_ —are something you do not wish to confront twice.

_But I am no coward,_ you think as you grit your teeth. The mental image of Ravenna’s eyes, however—empty and lifeless, and her body slumped over the dagger in her chest—makes you feel the contrary.

“Could be,” Eric replies. There is a stiff bluntness in his tone, and it weighs your heart down with guilt again. “From what I’ve heard—” he takes a sharp turn down a corridor, and you follow, “—they seem worse.”

_Worse?_

You give no response. Eric hefts his axe from his shoulder and grips it with both hands as you near the exit. Cries of men and howls of beasts raise a near deafening clamor in the air, but it doesn’t affect you, mostly because your ears are already ringing, and all you can hear is the familiar thumping in your chest that you’ve grown to love and fear.

_Whum-_

_-thump_

_Whum-_

_-thump._

It is the sound that reminds you that you are still alive, and it is the sound that reminds you that Ravenna is still hunting for you. Each beat demands your attention and refuses to be ignored; they say:

_You’re-_

_-alive_

_You’re-_

_-alive!_

And you aren’t sure if that is something you wish. Perhaps if you were dead, this fear would finally subside.

_You-_

_-coward_

_You-_

_-coward!_

* * *

All too quickly, your cries, thirsting for victory, for relief, join the overwhelming clamor of men’s shouts and beasts’ howls. Eric was right; these creatures are worse than the ones you encountered in the Dark Forest—hundreds of times worse. Their pelts are the color of the blackest of blacks—of a void—as if their silhouettes are massive shadows that destroy everything they touch. Multiple eyes scour the battlefield for fresh meat to turn to corpses—from both sides. Rage, burning in the irises of men, translates to the movement of their weapons as they draw a sickening, ink-like liquid into the cold, dry air. The whites of the beasts’ eyes are startlingly contrasting against their pelts, and their fangs, adorning the same gleaming color, are stained red as they sink into human flesh.

There are monsters of the likes no one has ever seen before.

There are the creatures with multiple appendages of everything—multiple legs, multiple tails, multiple heads. They are few in number but large in size, towering over even the tallest of men like mountains of sin. Their tails mimic the wild lashing of their heads that snap fiercely at any who dare approach, and those that do approach quickly retreat when under the rabid gaze of multiple pairs of eyes. It is with this tyrannical presence that they use their large paws to swipe at rows of soldiers, easily wiping out tens and tens at a time.

There are the creatures that take to the air with such a hideous grace, one couldn’t help but be entranced, if only for a short moment (it is in that short moment, however, that these creatures had enough time to strike a deadly blow). Long legs accompanied by talons for feet pluck up helpless soldiers on the ground and fling them far; their screeches sound like mocking laughter as their gazes dart about frantically, searching for more to throw. Their necks are long—conveniently long enough for a blade to slice cleanly across—but when one sees their faces, they freeze in fear, for they are wrinkled, pinched into a permanent scream, jaws unhinged wide, ready to swallow.

And finally, there are the foul, demon-like creatures that hang suspended as if their leathery wings are pinned to the air, and their long, triangular faces are embellished by permanent, upturned smiles. Long, ovular, empty eye sockets are blacker than the rest of their bodies, and their arms dangle limply from their torsos. They lurch forward and swing haphazardly with their long, curling claws—marionettes on strings being tugged by some unknown puppeteer.

This is not worse than the Dark Forest. This is a manifestation of Fear himself. This is a nightmare, for sure. It _must_ be. You are trapped in this nightmare as Fear cackles in the background, as he watches you slice uselessly at creature after creature. After many slashes, they exit from the world with a blood-hurtling scream and collapse to the ground; a black, tar-like substance sticks in their fur and on your skin. It is this substance that sinks into the Earth, absorbed like a sponge—and it makes you think how easily the World accepts such evils.

Perhaps the World doesn’t accept it. Perhaps the World is forced to oblige.

It makes you pause for a moment, through all the unraveling chaos around you. You stare at the pools of black blood on the ground, and it reminds you of Ravenna’s evil that has embedded itself into the land. The Earth draws in this blood like water, as if it is a dire necessity for living things, and the pools of black gradually disappear into the soil.

To sprout things rooted in evil.

Perhaps the World is _greedy_ for it. Perhaps the World _thrives_ on it.

_Snow…_

Your name is whispered through the blurring shadows and the crimson-streaked figures, weaving slowly, delicately, patiently.

_Snow…_

Her soft voice, deadly and gentle, deadly and gentle, deadly and gentle, ever so tenderly loosening the grip you have on your sword, ever so sweetly coaxing your eyelids to close, ever so sweetly, ever so sweetly, ever so sweetly…

_Snow…_

From somewhere far away, perhaps in another world, another dream, another nightmare, a foul, demon-thing’s lips twist sickeningly so into a perverse smile. The fleshy human in front of it is helplessly entranced by blood the same color as her beautiful, beautiful hair. The crimson won’t even show. How convenient.

_Snow…_

“Ravenna…” It tumbles out of your mouth on a light breath, disconnected from any sane thought. You’re calling back to her. Why are you calling back to her? She’s looking for you.

_She’s looking for you._

“Ravenna.” You blink, and time slows just a bit. Your heart thumps in your ears, and a sense of danger prickles up your back and to your neck, but it doesn’t register. The invisible strings attached to the arms of the demon-creature begin to jerk wildly in excitement. It can hear the heartbeat of its prey. So loud, so strong, so consistent.

_Whum-_

_-thump._

_Whum-_

_-thump._

_I feel that you and I are bound…_

Yes. You feel it, now. As you unknowingly approach death, the fated bond between you and the witch amplifies in your mind. Your eyes look around the battlefield, and the beasts are gone. Eric and William are nowhere to be seen. The soldiers, the soldiers whose eyes looked upon you with such hope—tired hope, but hope all the same—have vanished without a trace. She stands there, in a heavy winter cloak, emerald eyes burning fiercely, searching. A little invisible rope tugs at the thrumming organ in your chest, pulling you to her—

The world speeds up with an overwhelming rush, and a warm, sticky fluid splatters on your skin. It is the ear-splitting scream that brings you back to reality, but whether it was you or not, you cannot tell. All too quickly you are collapsing in the snow, and the cold welcomes you like it always did in your dreams.

Of course. It is always winter in your dreams. Even in the worst of your nightmares. If you die here, you will still wake up to the sun rising in the east. Its rays will slice through the trees, and you will be happy, if only for a few minutes.

When a writhing, leathery thing falls on top of you, however, you reconsider. Maybe this is a nightmare you are already living.

“ _Snow!_ ”

Sharp talons rake through your arms as you are flung to the side, and you fly in the air like a ragdoll, limbs flailing haphazardly. You feel no pain when you land. Perhaps it is because you are already dead.

_Whum-_

_-th-thump._

Your reminder throbs in your ears.

The demon-thing staggers over to you, through the shouts of men and sounds of battle. Three arrows are stuck grotesquely in its neck, jutting from odd angles—but it refuses to die. Another arrow _zips_ through the air and burrows itself deep behind its ear. The beast’s tongue, a worm-like appendage, lashes out of its open mouth and flings saliva across your armor as it roars in agony; you think you hear your name from somewhere…a far-off dream, perhaps? Another nightmare?

_“Run, Snow! Get up! Run!”_

Now, who’s telling you that? Maybe it’s your flight response. Maybe its Eric. Maybe it’s William. Who knows? Certainly not you. All you can think of is this thing’s curling, crooked teeth in your face as more arrows _thwok_ into its flesh.

_“Snow! Run!”_

Your head snaps to the right, and you nearly vomit at the sight of the carcasses of humans outnumbering the carcasses of creatures. It finally hits you. Demon-beast. William is wasting his arrows on you. Eric is nowhere to be seen. You are about to die.

Pure adrenaline overwhelms your bloodstream as your heart, your most precious organ, thumps rapidly against your ribcage. Grasping frantically at the ground, you scramble upwards onto your feet and bolt—away from the keep, away from the monsters, away from true love’s kiss, away from rivalries, away from Eric, away from William, away, away, away. The searing pain in your arms and legs barely slows you down. You run flat out in the opposite direction. You don’t care. You don’t think your mind has the ability to even _think_ coherently right now. All you know is that you are not dying—not today.

When the forest becomes unfamiliar and the wounds pouring blood become too much to bear, you stumble before finally, your knees buckle and the snow envelops you once more. Black creeps into the corners of your vision.

Your last thought before going unconscious is not pleasant.

_What kind of Queen does not fight alongside her men?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5**

The cool, crisp rain that falls from the heavens awakens you from your unconsciousness. It _pitter-patters_ on the breast of your armor, tinkling and plinking in your ears, gently rousing you from the darkness. _Wake up._ A wind breathes through the trees around you, causing the rain to whisper through the grey branches, bare to the cold of winter. The rain murmurs to you again, and it caresses your face as it sighs. _Wake up._

You take in a sharp breath of air only to be greeted with a stabbing pain in your side. Gasping, you attempt to expand your lungs again, but it agitates something there. Your hands find the straps of your mail and you lift it off to investigate. A deep wound, perhaps eight inches in length, splits the flesh just below your ribs open. You place your palm there only to draw it back quickly—the stickiness of blood plasters itself against it, and you shudder. How much blood have you lost?

Now that you are more awake, you realize that you feel rather light-headed. Fumbling for the nearest branch, you grab onto it—only to fall back down again in the snow, heaving for air. Through blurred vision, you spot heavily crimson-stained snow. You blanch, if it is even possible to grow any paler than you sure you already are. Your hands tremble violently. Something rises in the back of your throat, but you choke it down. Another gasp. Another wince. Another attempt to hoist yourself upwards. Another moment of collapse.

The snow is not cold on your face, and you wonder why. Perhaps it is due to the fact there is no blood to warm your battered body. You blink, and it takes a long time to open your eyes again.

You will probably die here.

A strange noise ripples through the soft rain and sounds, at first, completely foreign to your ears. You pinch your eyes tightly and try to steady your breathing, and it is too late when you recognize what it is.

Wolves.

You are going to die here.

Scrambling for a branch, you try to haul your weak body up again, only to fail when your muscles melt like hot iron. Your heart thumps desperately in your ears, warning you of your imminent peril in a panicked tone. _Run, Snow, run!_ it cries, but out of all the many times in your life that you spent fleeing from pursuit, this is the only one in which you have no means of escape.

The howl is louder this time. Twigs snap. Protection. You need protection. A branch, a stick, _anything._ _Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump_ persists your heart, and you ignore it as you try to blink away your blurred vision. You spot a long, grey blotch against the white of the snow. A rustle or two. You grab the stick as quietly as you can.

Silence.

Paying no attention to the sharp, stabbing pain in your side, your breath quickens as you try to listen over the rapid racing of your heart. The grip around the branch in your hand tightens, and the rough bark of it scrapes against your skin. You focus on breathing, but your lungs do not slow. Fast. Shallow. Fast. Shallow. Blink. Swallow. Breathe.

Teeth.

The searing pain of pointed fangs sinking into the flesh of your arm does not register, nor do the claws that slice against your legs and prying away your armor. The stick falls uselessly out of your hand, forgotten. You are far too close to the end to muster any strength to fight back. How many bite wounds have you suffered? How many scratches mar your skin? How much of your precious remaining blood stains the snow and the tongues of wolves? The answer is unknown. All you know is grey fur and sharp barks and loud, hungry snarls, and somehow you knew that it would end like this—always under pursuit, always as prey.

The crisp, cool rain sighs in defeat, and kisses your forehead softly as your vision blackens once more, but this time you know you will never see light again.

_“What does she want from me?” you ask. Your lip quivers slightly._

_Finn’s eyes devour your fear, and his smile turns devilish. “Your beating heart.”_

You realize it, then. If you die now, Ravenna cannot have your heart, live and thrumming against the confines of your chest. She will run out of sustenance, she _will_ die. But at what cost?—the lives of girls like Greta, and the lives of what men remain.

The wolves growl and snap at each other, arguing over who shall make the fatal lunge for your throat.

As you lie there, bleeding profusely, an image presents itself before your eyes—it is her— _her_ eyes, the same eyes you saw weak like the dying candle flame; a strong body yet a feeble soul, subject to something hidden behind the paling green of her irises. Her golden hair, which is usually tied tightly atop her head, flows unbound over her shoulders. She only stares and dares not to speak, but you can see the words she wishes to say begging for release behind her pink lips.

                _I feel that you and I are bound_

You abruptly take a Breath of Life, a Breath that tastes of a woman never grown, a marriage never had, a child never born, a long happiness never known. It tastes like the Life of Another.

Like it was robbed. Stolen. Bitter, yet replenishing. Snatched away from the Other, and now her life is Breathed into your lungs.

As your lungs expand as far as they are able, something triggers. Your throat seizes up, unwilling to let the Breath go. The Breath turns to what feels like liquid flame as it undulates through your veins, carried by what little of your precious blood is left. It finds every capillary, every vein, every fibre of your being until it is pushing underneath your skin, filling you to the brim with years of what Life could have Been—a Future.

Your eyes snap shut and you claw at the cold snow. The image of Ravenna is still there, but it is fading into the darkness, and as your mind desperately tries to reach out for her, to grab her presence and beg her to stay a second longer, she vanishes.

The last thing you see of her is her once vivid green eyes, now paler than ever before.

* * *

During the strange event in which Life was Breathed into you, the wolves scattered in what you can only assume to be fear. Your body relaxes against the ground, and you exhale loudly, only for your breathing to pick up a slightly frantic pace again. You glance around nervously, alert for any more signs of danger, but it seems all things living have disappeared. Even the trees seem wary of you now.

Once you have calmed down, you try again to pick yourself up—and surprisingly enough, you succeed. There seems to be an absence of pain as well. Suspiciously, you lift your battered armor.

There is no wound.

Startled, you begin to hastily check other regions in which you vaguely remember being attacked—legs, arms, face. No scars. No open flesh.

Nothing.

Whatever just happened, whatever Breath you just took—it had to do with Ravenna. Ravenna intervened, somehow. Her long, weakening green gaze is burned into your memory. There was something there. A shadow. A submission to something greater than herself.

All of the sorrow that you have found in your heart for her reveals itself, then—a heavy, tiring burden that you and she seem to share. It lingers, weighing down your thoughts. It is then you realize that you want to _go_ to her, that you want to learn about her and ease this, whatever it is.

And, you think, you’d wish to thank her, because she saved you.

But aren’t you forgetting something?

_Oh no._ The events before you fell into unconsciousness barrel through your mind, running rampant in a jumbled mess. The evil monsters. The castle. Eric. William. Countless men.

Dead.

And what did you do? You ran. You ran like the damned coward you are. You could’ve stayed and fought, truly you could’ve. You could’ve saved them. These are the men you asked to be your brothers. These are the men you rallied for war. And what of the Duke? What of the resistance?

What are you running from this time?

It is always a pursuit, and you are always the prey. For once, you would like to feel that you are not always running. For once, you would like to feel that _you_ are pursuing something, because lately it seems as though you are doing nothing but following behind or being followed.

You generally don’t like to make rash decisions, but this is an exception. You make up your mind with such swiftness, it is almost alarming. Does it make you question your motives? Perhaps. But something in your heart aches, and you wish to follow its path.

You begin your journey east, and follow the invisible rope that tugs gently at your heart.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while since I've updated anything really. And I know I've vanished from tumblr. Quite a lot is going on in my life. I'm in the middle of moving, for one. Two, I'm in hot water with mom and dad, so computer privileges have been on and off for a while. Three, my AP English teacher did not assign small books to annotate for my summer work. The Poisonwood Bible and Catch-22 are both big books. Mom especially is urging me to complete that work before I have any more fun.
> 
> In between all that, I've been going through some more personal stuff. Nothing bad, I assure you, but you know, life likes to hit me when I finally have a break from school.
> 
> Anyway, I've been on and off working on this chapter of MMIUA for a while, and I'm pleased to announce I have it done! (I also apologize for the length; this is about 2k-3k words longer than usual.)
> 
> Don't forget to comment and tell me how I did with this chapter. I'm easing myself back into this story, since I haven't touched it in a gazillion years.

**Chapter 6**

Trees, tall, grey towers for miles around. Nothing but trees and a thin layer of powdered snow on the ground, nothing but trees whose vein-like branches splinter off against the thick, grey, blanketed sky. You've never known the world to be so terribly silent. Not even when Ravenna imprisoned you was it completely quiet. There was always the murmuring of guards or the far-off sounds of the dilapidated marketplace, or of birds that peered warily in your one window. And maybe it's just the aftershock of being thrown into the loud, clashing sounds of battle, but the world seems completely asleep, and you are wandering through its dream.

You have not seen any signs of life for hours, not even a bird or the scampering white hare has crossed your path. Is this Ravenna's doing, or is this what winter looks like? Or is it a combination of both?

What an uneasy, unnatural feeling it is to be left to your own devices. You realize that ever since Ravenna murdered your father that you have not had true free will. She stole all your freedoms away when she forgot about you, rotting away in that cold room. And when you escaped, it was a thrill—you took matters into your own hands, you ran and you tasted liberty for the first time in years—until you were ensnared once more by the decisions of war and you were nothing but a white pawn, being picked up between the thumb and index finger of the Duke as you were moved from small square to small square.

Black and white. Live or die. Kill, or be killed. That is all the Duke could see. But little did he know there was so much grey. Your palm presses against the thick trunk of a dormant tree. So, so much grey.

But now here you are, unscathed from battle by the bizarre intervention of Ravenna, and free will has been placed delicately into your pale hands, and you inspect it carefully. There are so many questions and too few answers. Were those monsters Ravenna's? If they were, why attack now? To draw you out? To hurt your ranks? No, that didn't seem right. From the few times you were able to see her in person before you escaped, she seemed so powerful and direct, so filled with strength and pride that she would hardly consider the idea of attacking from afar. That is not her way. Face-to-face confrontation was what she preferred.

Besides, you have plenty of experience with her demeanor in your dreams.

But if she did decide to attack from afar, why would she? To flaunt her power? And then, you think _Power? What power?_ because all the times she has come to you in dreams is as weakened and frail, desperate, delicate. You grit your teeth and the cold wind whistles past your ears. None of this made sense. But who else could have done it?

That gives you pause. Is there a third party at play? Has this become something bigger, something that has caught the attention of something deadlier, something more powerful than Ravenna?

If there was, why would it want to take interest in the affairs of a princess who hardly knew who she even was and a near-immortal witch that could steal the life from anyone she wished?

You scream in frustration, and before you know it you've got a stone in your hand and now it's flying through the air. It hits the trunk of another tree hard, nicking the bark and exposing soft wood.

"Ow! Hey, _watch it_ , you insolent bug!"

You freeze. There seems to be no source to the high-pitched, irritable voice, and your eyes dart left and right, searching for something hidden in the trees.

And then, you realize, the _tree_ just talked, and you take a stumbling step back. "What in the hell?" you mutter, bewildered.

You stare wide-eyed at the perfectly still tree trunk that, even though you've checked multiple times, doesn't have a mouth. " _'What in the hell'_ is right!" it screeches. "Why would you just throw something at me like that? If you wanted my attention, you could have just asked!"

"I'm…sorry?" You never knew trees could be so cross. Trees? _Cross?_ Scrunching your nose at the thought, you try to at least explain yourself. "I didn't know you were there."

The tree sounds annoyed. Very annoyed. "What a lie. You saw me here with your own two eyes. You made the conscious decision to throw that rock. You didn't just whirl around and _whoop! I threw a rock at a tree!_ "

This is absurd. You're arguing with a goddamned tree. "Well, I didn't know trees could talk, in my defense!"

"Oh, so you're one of the kinds of humans that plays the _clueless victim_ act. I see, I see. _'I had no clue there are spirits that live in trees! I just throw hard objects at trees when I'm angry!'_ Mother Earth, I would hate to be in a romantic love affair with _you._ "

Spirit or no, you feel rather affronted. "Look, I told you I'm sorry. What else do you wish for me to do?"

There's a silence, and then a small chuckle. "So you really _are_ clueless. Even the dumbest man knows not to offer a dryad his services. Unless, of course, those services are in the interest of himself, but men are quite messy and rough and I would much rather tend to my branches."

"Dryad?" you question, confused.

Another voice, deeper and more matronly, sighs into the conversation. "Enough of your badgering, Darachi. It is all so very tiring, and it is obvious the poor creature is perplexed."

Finally, someone understanding of the situation. "Are you a…a _dry-ad_ , too?" you ask awkwardly, unsure of where to face to address the voice.

"Yes. Darachi is as well, but she prefers to stay holed up in her oak tree."

"It's cold, Coílla!" the higher-pitched voice, Darachi, whines.

"Stop complaining about the trivial!" the older voice, Coílla, snaps. "There are more important things to worry about. Such as the alarming fact that the soil is deteriorating at such a rapid rate that our trees will soon wither away, and we will very soon perish if we do not figure out a solution. If I hear any more bellyaching on your part, I swear I will come over there myself—"

"Ha! On my roots!" Darachi snickers. "You know that whole 'queen of the forest' act doesn't faze me. Just because you're only a few hundred years older than me doesn't mean that you can just boss me around like your little lover Finnis!"

"Don't you _dare_ start this again! It had been about a century and I was bored out of my bark!"

"Though it _was_ fun to watch him throw himself in Dealga's thorny vines just for you." Darachi's voice deepens mockingly. "' _Anything for my love_.'"

It seems the dryads have forgotten about you now. Either they're ignoring your presence or are too busy arguing. You plan to make your escape. Slowly, you begin to inch away.

"Hey!" Darachi screeches again, and this time you can almost feel her pointing an accusing finger, "you stop _right there!_ "

Your eyes screw shut as you mutter curses under your breath.

Coílla sighs exasperatedly. "By the Matron, Darachi, stop being so childish. To be quite honest, you are acting like a mischievous sapling."

"I'm sorry," you say, unsure of how to alleviate the situation (but in your defense, you've never quelled an argument between two trees before), "but I really don't know what you want from me. I've never been on the receiving side of anger from trees."

"Not _trees_ ," Darachi corrects, " _dryads._ We're spirits _tied_ to trees."

"Dryads," you mutter tiredly. "I am only seeking shelter for the night, and some warmth. If you can direct me to either, I can be on my merry way." You eye Darachi's tree. "And I promise on my life that I will never hit another tree out of my own spite ever again."

"Yes, well, that all sounds grand and dandy but a promise and the whistling of a happy tune as you trot off won't do it for a dryad!" Darachi snarks, and then adds thoughtfully, "Or any other spirit in nature, really. Though nymphs are easier. All you have to do is fool around with them a little and then you're forgiven with the snap of your fingers and an orgasm or two."

You blink, and then blink a few more times, partially shocked into silence, and partially unable to even begin to come with a response to that information.

"Splendid job, Darachi," Coílla scolds. " _Now_ look what you have done." She sighs again. "As straightforward as Darachi was, she is right. If you want something from nature spirits, you better have something to offer in return."

You furrow your brow. "She was right about the nymphs, too?"

A pause. "Unfortunately."

"Damned frisky nymphs," Darachi mutters darkly, "can hardly keep it under their leaves."

"Oh, grow a limb, Darachi," Coílla scoffs.

Clearing your throat, you move the conversation onward in a different direction (that direction being one _other_ than the sexual desires of nature spirits). "Well, I don't have any gold, or valuables, for that matter, to barter. I'm afraid I don't have much to offer."

That earns you a laugh from Coílla. "Oh, darling. Dryads do not desire those material things that humans so covet. We are spirits of nature. We want things that help the land, and our trees."

"Though nymphs are known to collect oddments from the human world," Darachi muses out loud. "Forks and jewelry and goodness knows what other kinds of junk."

"You certainly seem to have a vendetta with nymphs," you observe.

"Ha-ha, human. What an _astute_ remark. You know, you're not really helping out your case. You did hit me, after all."

"It was an accident!" you protest.

"Are you really so thick-skulled that I must explain how it was entirely premeditated _again?_ "

You frown. Luckily, Coílla comes to your rescue once more. "Darachi, silence! Please, human, ignore her. What we really need is nutrition in our soil." She sounds much more serious now, so you put aside your quarrel with Darachi and listen carefully (though as you turn towards the direction of Coílla's voice, you can practically feel Darachi sneering behind your back). "I have been alive for well over two thousand years and I have never seen this soil so malnourished. It tastes bitter and reeks of death."

This catches your attention, because you know what the trees closer to the castle look like, and even though these two dryads seem…difficult, you wouldn't wish their deaths upon them. Ravenna's influence is spreading. This is not good.

It doesn't take much to figure out. "You want me to find a way to replenish your soil."

"Yes!" Darachi pipes in. "Even if only for a short time. Any kind of nutrition would feel heavenly right now."

"But how am I supposed to?"

"That's for you to figure out, human," Darachi says. "But feel free to ask us questions. If it'll help us live a little longer, we're more than happy to answer."

You narrow your eyes at Darachi's tree. "And how am I supposed to trust you?"

"You are not obligated to trust us, human," Coílla answers. "But I will say that nature spirits, even nymphs, keep their promises. It is one thing that distinguishes us from your kind."

Which is hard to hear, because you yourself are human, but you have to admit—Coílla isn't wrong. And so you stare hard at Darachi's tree, and you think of how cold it's becoming and the sun is setting, slowly, and so you give in. "Alright." You take a deep breath. "Coílla, where is your tree?"

A few of the lower branches bend a bit farther than if the wind had pushed against them, and her voice follows. "Here, darling."

You throw a glance back at Darachi's tree, and then one towards Coílla's. They're only a couple of feet away from each other. How on earth have they managed, what—two thousand years?—without ripping each other's throats out, with the way they quarrel?

But those are thoughts for later. Now you have something much more pressing on your hands. The snow crunches under your feet as you kneel down and investigate Coílla's roots. They're old and gnarled, and twist together, under and over each other, as they plunge into the ground. Nutrient-poor ground, according to the dryads. Thoughts of Ravenna hang in the back of your mind nervously. Unsure of how to proceed, you let your fingers brush away the layer of snow that coats the roots and let them trail down until they meet the ground.

Coílla lets out a content hum. The tree sways, though no breeze blows.

"It is all so very refreshing when something gentle touches my roots," Coílla sighs. This catches your attention, and you pause to look up and listen. "Usually any manner of beast loves to plod their big paws over them without a second thought. It has been ages since any manner of life has so gently considered me."

You open your mouth to say something, but Darachi's tittering voice cuts in. "You are _such_ a sap."

Coílla tuts. "Hardly. Who _was_ it a few summers ago that was practically _oozing_ it? Not I, _that_ much I can attest to."

"Not funny! I couldn't control it! And gracious, all the damned _ants_ that crawled up my trunk! It was a nightmare, you withered old hag!"

A smile inches across your face as they fall back into another bickering fit, and try to focus on the problem. The soil. How do you put nutrients back into the soil? More importantly, how do they get there in the first place?

You ask this, and surprisingly both of them halt their argument to explain.

"Nutrients come from everywhere," Darachi begins. "The dung of a bear, the rotting of a wooden log. Most of our nutrients come from ourselves, though. Our leaves fall and coat the floor of the forest. They rot and return the nutrients we used back to us."

"It is a wonderful little cycle," Coílla adds.

"And your leaves all fell this year?" you ask.

"Just like normal," Darachi replies.

Something doesn't seem right. "How can there be less nutrients though, if your leaves have fallen like normal?"

Coílla's branches shake. "We have slowly begun to suffer this nutrient depletion over the past few years. It seems the more time goes on, the less the earth and the leaves give back to us."

Perplexed, you stare at the ground, hoping that the answer might come out of it. After a minute or so, though, it doesn't, and, out of ideas, you clear more snow from the ground and fight with the slightly frozen earth until you have a small handful of it. Gently but firmly, you press your thumbs into it and break it apart until it is loose and turned.

Slowly, you bring it to your nose and take a deep breath. Unlike what Coílla and Darachi claim, however, it smells rich, and bears a deep, dark color. Frustrated, you shake your head. "The soil is fine."

"Nonsense!" Darachi cries. "I haven't gotten even half of the nourishment that I should in the past month. And there isn't anything wrong with me, I can assure you."

You pause, and knit your brows together. Rising, you turn to face Darachi's tree. "How can you be so sure?"

Darachi snorts. "You're _really_ questioning the spirit who has been living in this tree for hundreds of your own lifetimes? If there was something wrong with me, I would know."

But an idea is already budding in your thoughts, and you know that neither Darachi or Coílla will like it—but there's only one way to find out. "I need one of you to break open your roots."

_"What?"_ they both screech simultaneously, and you cringe. It's not an agreeable sound.

"Listen," you firmly persist, "if this is what I think it is, there is only one way for me to check."

"And _what_ do you think it is, exactly?" Darachi hisses. "What on earth could possibly make you suggest such a ridiculous idea?"

Talking about Ravenna isn't ever easy, but you glance at the horizon and the sun is dipping down under it; nightfall will surely pounce on you, and you will be cold and tired and hungry and with no shelter. You draw in a deep, steadying breath. "I know of a witch. A sorceress, far from here, and the trees and plants nearest to her have suffered from her presence. They're withered and dry, and I think most of them are dead." It is unusual to hear both the dryads fall silent, and for a split second you think they know something you don't. Nevertheless, you push on, stumbling past the lump in your throat. "Or are very close to it. I am afraid her influence has spread farther as she tries to…" The thumping of your heart pressing against your chest overwhelms your ears, and your voice cracks and breaks, and damnit, why is this so difficult?

"…To?" Coílla encourages quietly.

"…To stay alive," you finish shakily, "to try and survive. I know only one of her methods, but I'm afraid she's sapping the land in her desperation." Your forest-green eyes stare hard at Coílla's tree, and then flicker over to Darachi's. "I need to check one of your roots." You were shaking and trembling just moments before, and the steel in your voice startles you.

The dryads fall silent again, perhaps discussing your proposition in their own tree-language, and you wait for their answer, periodically pressing the crescents of your fingernails into your calloused palms to steady your nerves.

When Coílla answers, she sounds tired, defeated. "I will sacrifice one of my own," she murmurs somberly, "I have been alive longer than Darachi, and I have a better chance of surviving this without one fully protected."

Darachi says nothing. Only her branches creak sorrowfully.

You nod silently. It's amazing, really, how Darachi and Coílla can bicker and fight like dog and cat, but when it comes to this they are so sacrificial for one another. You think of William and Eric. They bicker and fight, but if the time ever came for them to be sacrificial, you are not so sure they would get over their own selfishness.

As the earth moves beneath your feet and Coílla lifts one of her thick, gnarled roots, it hits you like a slap in the face. The time for sacrifice has already passed, after the monsters attacked. When it came down to life and death, would they have made amends?

The great, nearly deafening sound of splitting wood and Coílla's soft sobbing draw you out of your thoughts. It certainly isn't Coílla's largest root, but it isn't terribly small, either; it's thicker than your arm, and your heart drops at the splintered bark and torn soft wood. By the way she talked about her roots before, you imagine that they must mean much to a dryad. How many years did it take for Coílla to grow this root? How long had it been with her? Since she was a young sapling?

"I'm sorry," you whisper, and you mean it.

"Just get to it," she grits out.

Nodding, you approach the open root and kneel down, inspecting the thick outer layer of bark with the pads of your fingers. They follow a trail to the softer inside, and at first you don't see anything wrong until you notice little beads of black liquid gathering all along the interior.

Snatching a nearby stick off the ground, you carefully take the tip and drag it along the surface of the inside of the root, and gather a small amount of the dark fluid. It's sticky and viscous—thick. Thicker than blood.

You present the end of the stick to the trunk of the tree. "This isn't normal, is it?"

For the first time, you hear Coílla's voice shake. "No, it is not."

Darachi is, also for the first time, quiet. "What on Mother Earth is that?"

More of the dark fluid beads heavily and drips out of Coílla's root, forming a small pool in the ground. You squint at it. None of this was in the soil—not at the surface, at least. But Coílla's root ran deep into the ground. And something is still off about this.

"It's dripping," you observe out loud, unsure if this information is of any use to either of the dryads. One of the branches cracks loudly, and you jump at the sound. Coílla's tree is moving more than it should, creaking and groaning. She seems distraught. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, you simple fool!" Coílla snaps. "Roots are not supposed to _drip!_ Water and nutrients flow _up_ them, not _down_ and _out_ of them!"

"I—"

Darachi's branches creak. "Forgive Coílla," she sighs, "she insults people that help her when she is distressed."

Careful not to upset Coílla even more than she already is, you carefully ask your next question. "What does this mean?"

Darachi answers for her. "It means something is getting into our trees and taking the life out of them." The next words seem hard for her to say. "You were right. There's nothing wrong with the soil. An outside force is taking life out of us faster than we can bring it in."

Now _that_ sounds like Ravenna—she would go head-to-head even with the smallest form of life, making it struggle as they battle for their right to live. And you feel helpless. "So what do I do?"

"Even this is beyond our power," Coílla answers. "I doubt a human could do much better."

Protest and anger boil under your skin. "But I want to _help_ ," you insist.

"Give us the name of the sorceress," Darachi says, more seriously than you've ever heard her before.

You force the lump in your throat back. "Her name is Ravenna."

The dryads halt their arguing again, and Coílla's tree shudders. "Oh, dear."

"You _know_ her?" you ask, bewildered.

"Oh, yes." Coílla sounds on the verge of breaking. "The trees talk, darling."

"Well," Darachi hums, "now we know who is behind this leeching, so that will prove useful should we consult the faeries."

"Fool!" Coílla bites harshly. "We _will_ consult the faeries. There is no way we can mend this on our own."

You blink. The _faeries?_ These dryads talk to the faeries? A window of opportunity opens itself up to you. You know the faeries. You've met the faeries. You've held the small, little white things up to your eyes on your own index finger. You've stroked the Stag on its forehead. Your next words bring their new argument to a screeching halt.

"I can help." You sound determined, sure, _confident_. Because you aren't sure of many things right now, but this is the one thing you _know_. And even if you're going out of your way to help two ancient dryads, it gives you a sense of purpose. A sense of purpose that _you_ chose. That _you_ have instilled in yourself. You aren't the savior of the Duke's army. You aren't the everlasting cure for a witch. You are Snow. And this is a path that you have chosen.

Darachi assumes her high-pitched, irritated voice again. "And just _how_ do you propose—"

"I've met the faeries," you breathe. This brings Darachi to a skittering stop, and judging by her silence, this has caught her attention, so you continue. "If you direct me to them, I can speak to them on your behalf."

"It _would_ be faster than sending word through the trees," Darachi points out to Coílla, who has not spoken ever since you mentioned the faeries.

A pregnant moment of silence swells in the conversation as you await Coílla's reply. Finally, it comes, but it has nothing to do with sending you off. "You know the faeries," she echoes.

Unsure of where she is going with this, you give her a slow nod.

"You are Snow White," she says breathlessly.

Your eyes widen. "How—"

"The trees talk," Darachi whispers. You turn to face her tree, still shocked. Coílla's bewilderment and awe seems to have spread to Darachi now, and she only talks to you in hushed tones. "Though none of us knew you were still alive."

The cracking and groaning of Coílla's tree sparks alarm in you, and for a moment you're afraid Coílla is breaking another one of her roots, but when you turn around, mouth half-open and ready to soothe the older dryad, you are not facing a tree. The tree is behind the naked woman that stands before you, curiosity and wonder gleaming in eyes the color of earth and greying oak leaves. Interspersed in her long, silky white hair that cascades down her shoulders are small, young leaflets. Pale, branch-like markings frame her face from her ears to her brow, and just barely touch the corners of her eyes. Those same markings, though a more solid white, splinter and spindle all up and down her arms. One wraps around her left ring finger.

She towers above you, but her face is burdened with exhaustion and fatigue. Surprisingly, Darachi assumes the role of concerned dryad. "Coílla, even you are far too weakened to stray even a few paces from your tree."

But Coílla just ignores the worry in Darachi's voice and continues to stare. Without words she offers you a hand, and, tentatively, you take it, and she closes her fingers around yours and takes a deep breath in, eyes fluttering closed. When she exhales, a deep hum reverberates from the center of her chest. It sounds healing, and content.

She opens her eyes. For half a moment you expect something deep and reverent, but nothing of the sort comes. "I apologize profusely for Darachi's irritable behavior."

" _Hey!_ If it wasn't for _irritable_ me _,_ we wouldn't have found the source of our little problem, now would we?" Coílla opens her mouth but Darachi cuts her off with more snark. "Thank me later, Coílla, thank me later." As an afterthought, she adds, "Plus, when you have miss high-and-mighty dryad here as a neighbor for two thousand years, _she_ gets pretty damned annoying, too."

Your shoulders shake as you laugh, genuinely, for the first time, and you cannot even begin to explain to Coílla and Darachi how grateful you are for their response. No bowing, no revering, no ridiculous offerings as if they thought you were a goddess. Here you are, laughing with a nature spirit, who uses up the little energy she has to see you personally, and you have never felt more like a regular person in your life.

A small smile spreads across her face, pulling the corners of her pale pink lips upward in a most pleasing fashion. You wonder how long it has been since Coílla has been out of her tree, since she has seen the world around her through her eyes, since she has planted her bare feet in the ground and _smiled._

The grin doesn't fade as Coílla shoots a glare at Darachi's tree. Turning back to you, she places both of her hands on yours and squeezes tight. "Head southeast of here. Follow the river. That will lead you to the Sanctuary. And if you ever get lost," Coílla moves one of her hands to tenderly cup your cheek, "ask the trees. They will guide you."

Coílla's hand is comforting on your cheek, and you ask yourself with a sigh how long it has been since someone so subtly just _comforted_ you, with no questions asked. "How will they know?"

Coílla chuckles, and it sounds like it comes from deep inside the earth. "Darachi may be a little bit right, for once." She taps the side of your temple. "How many times must we tell you? The trees talk, darling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you guys, but Coílla and Darachi are the first and only two dryads I've ever written, and I love them to pieces already. And I ship it. I ship it so hard. Can we have a tag for them? Does #Doílla work? Or #Carachi? Ya'll decide.


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